


Chance Meetings

by Makioka



Category: Sinister Street - Compton Mackenzie
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 05:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makioka/pseuds/Makioka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the end of Sinister Street, Michael Fane has a chance meeting that reveals an unexpected relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chance Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't even attempt a pastiche of the author's style but I hope Michael is recognisable.

He had never expected to see Daisy again, not even in the new course of his work, retrieving and saving hapless souls from the morass of evil that London's streets hid. He hadn't even thought of her, it was simply too hard to reconcile the cheerful feckless Daisy with those poor specimens he now spent his life succoring and redeeming. It seemed like years had passed since he had taken on this thankless task, though in fact rather less than ten days had elapsed. It was always so he reflected, the hardest and most dangerous work weighed on the souls of those who engaged in it, and he rather thought that the passerbys could see reflected in his face his grim and noble purpose, that it must be carved in resolute fashion and give his whole figure definition and life. Already he fancied, there was something of the quiet sanctity of Dom Cuthbert about him, not the busy, fussy lines of Chator and those others who could not strike to the heart of the problem of the Church, but must fuss with the details and the ornamentation of Christianity instead. 

Yet there she was, just exiting a haberdashers, with her hat adorned with freshly trimmed daisies, and her dress so fresh and new that he could not help remarking inwardly on it, and surmising that she had found a rather richer refuge than was commonly her wont. He was afflicted for a moment with the fear that if she approached then those around him would imagine her some relation or worse some vague undefined connection of his, but recalling Christ’s words to the sinners he also recalled his duty. So indeed it was rather shocking when she walked on past without a second glance, requiring him to call after her.

Her face brightened on seeing him. "It's the Jewish fellow," she exclaimed, then taking note of his obvious mortification she relented. "It's Michael of course. I thought you were departed from our company for good?"

He smiled at her, comfortably conscious that their intercourse in the past had rendered her aware of the lengths to which he had gone in an effort to understand her kind; (the squalor in which he had lived in Lepard street still haunted him sometimes, and the smell of whisky and lemon which one gentleman at his club who suffered from a perpetual cold ordered rather regularly, still had the power to bring back vividly the Club D'Orange and those nights he had lived amongst the poorest.) Now he imagined that she must see his new poise, how he was a different Michael from the earnest youth he has been, one more fitted for the purpose that he had been put on this earth for by God, and he waited for her to notice the change. It was not forthcoming. Scarcely had they exchanged their pleasantries in the street, before she insisted that she must hurry, that she had an appointment that she could not miss. 

He watched her go with regret, she seemed to him like the embodiment of a far ago time, when being young and foolish he had attempted to understand her, and he smiled as if at a jest at the expense of that young self of his. Really he had been the most awful prig with her he supposed, but there had been something rather noble in how delicately and honourably he had treated her.

It was with this rueful smile on his lips that he continued down the street, retracing in his mind the many times he'd walked it before. And it was with a considerable amount of shock that he felt his arm being tapped. Turning, he gasped in outraged shock. It was as though someone had stolen his features and positioned them above a lean, fit body that was clearly not that of a gentleman. His interrogator's face was equally surprised, he had clearly not seen Michael's face before he had approached him. Michael suppressed his initial feeling of outrage that some thief, some coarse fit being had stolen his face, and stared at the other man, tracing with dismay the strange similarity of its features to his own. Not merely the same straight nose, and firm cut mouth but the same blue eyes stared back at him. The jaw was firmer, the brows more pronounced and he found himself irrationally irritated at these differences. He had recovered his own poise first. "Who are you?" he demanded.

The other man stiffened. "I'm Bert Saunders. Who are you when you're at home?" His voice did not have the accent of a gentleman but nor was it uncultured or rough, it was neutral in a way that Michael felt vaguely might've been trained. There was something of the actor or the eccentric about him in fact, his clothes were well fitting and neat but ornamented with unusual touches- the daisy tucked in his pocket, the unusually bright waistcoat, the slightly too shiny shoes. 

He felt a strange reluctance to reply, but it was absurd not to. "Mr Fane," he said stiffly. The idea of allowing this man to address him by his Christian name was more repellent than he could say. "I say, was there something you wanted?" It seemed to him that if he acknowledged the similarity out loud that there really could be no way to escape engaging in conversation with him. 

"I saw you talking to Daisy and I wondered if you knew of her current address," was the cool response. "She's moved since the last time I was in London."

The mention of Daisy, and the itching familiarity of the man's name combined, and Michael flushed red as he remembered the desperate escape from this man on that horrible night when Daisy had invited him in, the sickening rush and unmanly fear that had filled him, and incited her to kiss him. This was the Bert Saunders she had spoken of, the Bert Saunders whose similarity to Michael she had remarked upon before. She had spoken truly he reflected. Thrusting the thoughts away and praying the flush did not look guilty, he replied. "That was the first time I've seen her myself in a long time. I'm afraid I don't know for certain where she can be contacted, but I can give you the address she had last if that's any help." He was aware he was spitting words out nervously, anything to convince this man to go away.

Moments later having scrawled Daisy's last address on the grubby paper Bert had found in his pocket, he was turning to walk away thankful to have escaped from a situation that seemed to have come straight out of some gruesome German folk-tale, when more hesitantly than he had yet spoken Bert asked him a question. "Does the name Lord Saxby mean anything to you?"

He felt the blood leave his face in a rush, and he must have looked like he had seen his own death, since the other man leant forward in concern and gripped his elbow to steer him to the tea-shop close by. He went mechanically, resenting the touch. When hot tea in a chipped cup sat before him he looked up into the eerie replication of his own face. It behooved him as a gentleman not to shy away from this he felt, but bracing himself to the question was difficult. When finally his cold fingers had regained some warmth from the cup he spoke. 

“I’m surprised to hear that name from anyone. I had rather assumed that anyone who cared to know, would know he was my father.” As soon as the words spilt forth he would have snatched them back if he could. He was a fool, he told himself. A thrice-damned fool, and the word damned that had taken such a peculiarly unpleasant ring of late now seemed the only right word. Who his father was, was none of this chap’s business after all, it belonged to Michael, Stella and their mother. It was old old gossip now, chewed and torn over so many times it had no flavour to anyone. It was indeed such an old piece of gossip that it had assumed an air of respectability on account of its age, as though time had neutered the baleful sting of their unsanctioned birth.

The other man twisted his napkin, first screwing it up, then smoothing it out with quick nervous tugs, and Michael fixed his gaze on that, the action so similar to Stella’s unconscious motions that he knew the result of this conversation even before Bert responded. “It’s rather a rum coincidence, but well Lord Saxby happened to be my father as well.”

The truth was out in the open, laid ugly and bare for all to see. Michael shared kinship with this man, this denizen of the demi-monde. With the firmest of efforts he was able to keep himself from being sick- the few sips of tea he’d had were rising in his gorge. It didn’t occur to him for a moment to doubt the assertion that Bert made. Their ancestry was written in their faces after all. He thought with bitter self hatred of the pride he’d felt in the aristocratic features he’d inherited from his father, that were mirrored in a rougher cast opposite him. 

With a delicacy that Michael had never thought to attribute to a man in such a waistcoat, Bert remained silent, neither offering details of how such a birth could come to be nor expressing any sentiment about such an accidental meeting of brothers, something Michael found himself appallingly grateful for. After a few minutes of silence Bert stood and picked up his hat. “It’s been rather an odd day.” There was a muted sense of humour beneath the words, as though even after such a shock he could see the levity of such a farcical situation. “Even under such circumstances a pleasure to meet you,” he held out his hand and Michael shook it numbly.

“Where can I find you?” Michael asked.

Bert looked at him curiously. “I don’t want any money,” he said and in his voice there was nothing of the outraged moral poor, nor of the obsequious liar. It was the voice of a man of the world who from the beginning wishes to be clearly understood. It was the voice of a man who from weary experience knew that between wealth and position, and poverty and its results, there could be only one relationship and that of a fiscal nature. 

In that stark declaration Michael found a certain beauty. “I would rather like to talk to you,” he said, trying to fill it with a certain blasé confidence. There was something rather engaging about this rough hewn version of himself he thought. Clearly he lacked polish and education, but obviously as a result of his aristocratic blood he stood out from the crowd, much as Michael himself had always done in one way or another.

“Enquire for the offices of the Illustrated Crime paper in Seven Sisters,” Bert said abruptly. “They’ll know where to find me.” He bowed and left the tea-shop. Michael thrust aside his own tea-cup and stood, resolved to beg off the rest of the day at the chaplaincy (not that there was much left of it,) in order to fully understand what had happened. He thought vaguely of praying for guidance but decided that he was feeling far too restless and that it should have to wait until he knew what action he would take first. He nodded once firmly to himself and left the tea-shop.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't think of a character in literature I cordially dislike as much as Michael Fane.


End file.
